


Je T'aime, Mon Ami

by 3DMG Shenanigans (Lightningpelt)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, and kindergarten eren is pretty cute too, and marco, but kind of an ass, grade school au, i dont know what else to tag this, just click for cute kindergarten jean, marco's pretty adorable too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpelt/pseuds/3DMG%20Shenanigans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has been trying to confess for a long time now- since kindergarten, for heaven's sake! But, sooner or later, he arrived at the conclusion that he'd rather be remembered as a best friend as opposed to a failed lover. JeanMarco </p><p>Fill for the SnK kink meme- OP wanted Jean to fall in love with Marco first, as opposed to the fandom cliche of Marco falling in love first and Jean being the oblivious dork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je T'aime, Mon Ami

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff! 'Cause everybody needs an occasional dose of it. :P 
> 
>  
> 
> Pssst... follow my SnK tumblr for updates regarding fanfics, new projects, and to see if my requests are currently open~ http://3dmgshenanigans.tumblr.com/ 

How long had this little song and dance been going on?

“Y-Your black hair is much pretty!!”

Oh, that was right. Since Kindergarten.

The little freckled boy turned to his classmate, blinking in surprise. The tiny French boy, with his clumsy accent and tiny feet turned inward as he fidgeted, was watching him from under his bangs, smiling tentatively. His grammar might have been even less perfect than that of the other children, but his words were honest… and had taken him the better part of the day to build up the courage to say them.

And Marco beamed back, angelic, chubby face glowing and adorable gap where his front teeth should have been exposed by his grin. “Thanks, Jean! I like your hair, too!”

Much to tiny Jean’s frustration, though, he then turned back to his coloring sheet; begun to chat with his other friends. Feeling rejected and not knowing exactly why, the little French child turned, intending to return to his solitary game of hide and seek. But then a small hand caught hold of his sweater sleeve, pulling him gently back toward the table.

“Come color with us, Jean!” Marco urged, that huge, friendly smile making the other kindergartener’s face flush.

“Aw, Marco!” another child, Eren, protested. “Jean’s such a poopy head, we don’t want him to color with us!”

“Eren, don’t be a meany!” half the other children objected, as tiny Jean and tiny Eren glared at each other. But, a moment later, the little French boy was distracted by a gentle tug on his sleeve, bringing his attention fully back to Marco… who was still smiling encouragingly.

“Won’t you come color with us, Jean?”

And a tentative smile had lit the little boy’s face. “… O-Okay…!”

… … …

Snack time: the highlight of any 2nd grader’s day.

Snack time: also Jean’s newest plan of attack.

The little French boy could hardly keep a lid on his nerves as he collected his milk and packet of cookies from Ms. Rico and then trotted, on stubby legs, over to where all the boys- plus Mikasa –were clustered. He had to squeeze his way into the little group, half-shoving Reiner out of the way as he scooted closer to his objective: the little freckled boy, who was no longer missing his front teeth.

“M-Marco…!”

The child turned at the sound of his name; smiled in welcome. “Jean! I'm so glad you’re eating snack with us today!”

Jean felt a shiver of nervousness arch up his spine. “I-I…” Blushing hot and momentarily running out of breath, the French boy looked down. “A-About… about snack, Marco…”

The freckled boy cocked his head, bemused but still open and friendly. Jean gulped, then thrust out his little napkin.

“Y-You can have my cookies, Marco!!”

The freckled boy drew back in surprise, and then laughed nervously. “B-But Jean… it’s you snack!”

“

But I want you to have it!!” Jean insisted, thoroughly flustered and refusing to look up as he held out his trembling offering. Marco, seeing this, didn’t have the heart to decline. So instead he placed his hand gently over his classmate’s trembling hands, lowering them gently.

“How about we split them, Jean?”  
Looking up, tears of sheer relief in his eyes, the little French boy began to smile. “Marco…! You’d…?”  
“Of course!” the other replied, his grin widening. “That’s what friends do- share!”  
… … …  
“Oi, Marco! Would you be my partner?  
By fifth grade, Jean had grown bolder- persistent bullying from some of the other children (Eren, to name the biggest offender) had taught him to be loud and tough; the only time he softened was when he was around his best friend in the world, one Marco Bodt.  
“Of course, Jean!” the freckled boy said, trotting over and slipping into the seat beside his friend. Their hands brushed; Marco thought nothing of it, but the slightest contact made Jean’s whole body flare with heat.  
_Marco is my best friend…!_ It had become a mantra he repeated to himself all too often. _That’s all! He likes girls…_ I _like girls! I like Mikasa- I think her hair is pretty!_

Of course, the _reason_ he thought that Mikasa’s hair was pretty was that it reminded him of Marco’s. Groaning with despair, he slammed his face against his desk, startling poor Marco out of his skin.

“Jean?! Jean, are you okay?!”

… … …

Seventh grade- the year of mandatory school dances. Ms. Hanji made no secret of the fact that they were being taught how to find a future mate, and most of the children didn’t mind the forced interaction with the opposite gender, which they had avoided in typical grade school fashion up to that point.

Jean minded. He wanted nothing to do with girls.

He wanted, very much, something to do with his best friend Marco Bodt.

Marco, however, seemed just as gung-ho about the absurd, heterosexual activity as the rest of the thickheaded males in their class. So Jean forced himself to play along, watching as Marco danced with girl after girl. He had learned to swallow the far-beyond-platonic affection he felt for his friend, after so many miserably failed confessions (the last of which and been, by far, the worst; the bee stings still hadn’t healed entirely). So he pretended to be hopelessly in love with Mikasa; talked about girls whenever Marco wanted to; participated in the idiotic dances.

But somewhere, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t banish the thought of dancing with Marco; being held in those warm, gentle arms; behind kissed by those soft lips that always framed a smile.

… … …

It was the night after graduation, and by far the saddest night of young Jean Kirstein’s life.

He had known it was coming, but he had forced himself to ignore the impending date; to compound the illusion, he hadn’t told a single one of his classmates about it. He had been a sobbing wreck on graduation night; Eren had teased him about it, as per usual, and Marco had comforted him, as per usual. But what they had passed off as emotion over the graduation itself had a much deeper meaning.

It had been the hardest to hide from Marco; so many times, Jean had wanted to tell him, nearly as much as he wanted to confess his cursed feelings. But he had bit his tongue over and over, not wanting what time they had left to be tainted with the knowledge.

One small suitcase was all he packed. He didn’t have many possessions, after all, that were his own; most of his clothes were hand-me-downs from the foster home, and he left them to be passed on to younger generations of exchange students. He took two outfits, plus a photo album; he took his computer, of course, and two books. He also took his blanket out of nostalgia, remembering all the hours that he and Marco had spent sprawled out on it as they talked; more than once they had taken a nap, both curled up in its warm folds.

Throat clogged with emotion, Jean bid his foster parents farewell, and then got in the cab that was to take him to the airport. The whole way, he muttered in French under his breath; he had let his native tongue grow rusty, and was nervous about returning to a homeland that seemed foreign, now. But the tears rolling down his face had nothing to do with the trip or the approaching homecoming, and everything to do with the troubling matter of Marco Bodt.

His best friend was unlikely to miss him; everyone liked the freckled boy, even if they had never taken to Jean, so he wouldn’t want for companionship. He even had a girlfriend, a pretty high school freshman named Mina Carolina. Jean hated her, but it wasn’t anything personal- just run-of-the-mill jealousy. He was sure she would make Marco very happy.

The French boy choked on a sob as he thought about it; he never had succeeded in confessing his feelings to his best friend. It wasn’t even as if he had anything to lose; the chances of him ever seeing Marco again were so infinitesimally small that it boggled the mind. _But… I want him to remember me in the best way possible,_ the boy reminded himself, hands clenching on his lap. _And that means as a best friend, not a failed lover._

Jean, snuffling and whipping at his face, clambered out of the cab; paid the driver and shut the door behind him. The airport loomed up before him, cold and unwelcoming, the very opposite of Marco’s eyes. Shaking his head furious, the French boy hurried inside before he lost his nerve. He checked his bag and began to wade through security, tears pushing stubbornly at his resolve. But if he could just avoid thinking about _Marco,_ then perhaps he _Marco_ could hold it _Marco_ together _Marco_.

“Jean!”

 _Oh great…_ the French boy thought dismally. _Now I’m hearing things._

A moment later, however, a surprised yelp was dragged from him as a warm body plowed into his, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He would recognize the feel of that embrace; the smell of the boy, anywhere in the world.

“M-Marco-?!”

The freckled boy's grip on him tightened. “You were planning on leaving without saying good bye,” he stated, and Jean flushed with embarrassment.

“Well… I… um…”

“How could you leave without saying good bye to your best friend?!” Marco demanded, effectively stabbing his “best friend” through the heart all over again.

“B-Because…!” Jean spluttered abrasively, but then fell silent. Marco peered at him curiously, bringing his face unwittingly close to his supposedly platonic friend’s.

“’Because…?’” he prompted gently.

The despair-flavored love was too strong, in that instant; Marco’s breath bathing his face, Marco’s eyes an inch from his own, Marco’s very presence scrambling his thoughts and reacting with his blood like a narcotic. Moving forward too fast to second guess himself, Jean pressed his lips fully to Marco’s. The freckled boy gave a muffled squeak of surprise, but his friend had trapped him in an embrace just as wonderful and loving as those in all his fantasies.

“ _Je t’aime, Marco Bodt,_ ” he whispered, against those soft lips. “ _Je t'ai toujours aimé._ ”

The kiss only lasted for a moment. Then Jean, flustered and tearstained and more than a little humiliated, turned and fled through the now-empty security terminal, unable to even look in his friend’s eyes to see his reaction. He heard his name cried out as he flashed his ID and boarding pass; heard the tramp of feet coming after him… and then heard security informing Marco, in none-too-gentle terms, that he couldn’t go past the red line on the floor. Jean heard his friend’s voice raised in an objection; heard the scuffle of feet as an altercation broke out, and the security guard calling for a pair of handcuffs.

 _He must really hate me…_ the French boy thought, with a tragic smile, _if he wants to catch me this badly. God, I've really done it this time. I really screwed up._

And not once did he look back in his frantic dash through the terminal, tears rolling down his face as he left his best friend and failed lover behind.  


… … …

… … …

… … …

… … …

… … …

… … …

… … …

… … …

Jean sighed, gazing distractedly up at the sky as he walked home. Day after day he went to work; exchanged pleasantries with his coworkers; picked up a simple supper from the deli down the street. Each day was the same- not at all a bad life, but an empty one; far emptier than the one he had left in America. But the fact of the matter was, he had come to terms with that.

And he thanked Fate every day for every single moment he had been allowed to spend in the company of Marco Bodt.  


Smiling slightly, sadly, he lowered his head and gazed straight ahead instead. He walked slowly, in time to the tune playing in his head; wove lazily across the sidewalk, first this way and then that, remembering the dance lessons he had been forced to take in seventh grade and wishing, with all the force of a hopeless dream, that he could have danced with Marco just once. He might have pretended it was in jest; swept his best friend off his feet, just for a moment, and then laughed it off as a joke. But perhaps that would have made it even more painful.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his; pulled him around and into a tight, graceful twirl before holding him close. Jean felt the steady thrum of a heart as he was pressed to the other’s chest, his breath catching. He would have recognized the feel of the embrace anywhere, although the soft arms had grown considerably stronger; he would have recognized the scent anywhere, although now it was tinged with coffee instead of the boyish hot chocolate they had shared on many a cold night. He might have whispered the name, had not his throat been clogged with tears.

“ _Je t’aime, Jean Kirstein._ ” The breath on his ear was warm; there was a smile in the voice, and the embrace was tightened. “Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to find you?”


End file.
